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| 2008-03-09 01:09 |
| Benzi's pendant |
| Public |
| aging, becky, benjamin, benzi, chava, cognition, haifa, professor, rebeckah, ring, shani |
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The talyon was the first thing she saw when she came to see her father. But it took close to an hour before she perceived it. All the heads, old and young, turned as she swept through the entrance doors of the Sepharadic Home for the Aging. Her flowing skirts, the Jackie-O-like shades pulled back, keeping her dark long hair away from her face, dangling her keys to the beat of the tune she was whistling, beaming at the smiles she elicits from everyone whose gaze happens to meet hers. Rebeckah Shani is here.
At one time in her life, she regretted her parents hadn't named her after her great aunt Rosy...
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| 2008-02-27 08:54 |
| Where were you when JFK was shot? |
| Public |
| assassination, benzi, birth, california, chava, education, gideon, haifa, naming, shira, tel aviv |
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Shira was two days old, in a cart next to Chava, who was listening trembling and weeping to the live radio reports from Dallas. They were both a continent, an ocean, and a sea away from the grassy knoll but Chava was trembling for a good reason.
In only eight months she will be traveling with her eldest, Gideon, and her new born to the golden gate, where she will be picked up by Benzi, who will have been there already during the summer to set up their new life. For the next four years she will live in the Village in Oakland...
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The Washington Post. Copyright 2006.
by Ruth Kluger
This extraordinary work of fiction about the German occupation of France is embedded in a real story as gripping and complex as the invented one. Composed in 1941-42 by an accomplished writer who had published several well-received novels, Suite Française, her last work, was written under the tremendous pressure of a constant danger that was to catch up with her and kill her before she had finished.
Irène Némirovsky was a Jewish, Russian immigrant from a wealthy family who had fled the Bolsheviks as a teenager. She spent her adult life in France, wrote in French but preserved the detachment and cool distance of the outsider. She and her husband were deported to Auschwitz in 1942, where he was gassed upon arrival and she died in the infirmary at the age of 39. Her manuscript, in minuscule and barely readable handwriting, was preserved by her daughters, who, ignorant of the fact that these notebooks contained a full-fledged masterpiece, left it unread until 60 years later. Once published, with an appendix that illuminates the circumstances of its origin and the author's plan for its completion, it quickly became a bestseller in France. It is hard to imagine a reader who will not be wholly engrossed and moved by this book.
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Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Copyright © 2004.
Némirovsky wrote Suite Française as the events that inspired them unfolded simultaneously; that alone makes the work remarkable. The first two novels came to light in 2004 (and were published to great acclaim in France) after Némirovsky's daughters revealed the existence of their mother's notebooks. With the author's notes about her next three novels (Captivity, Battles, and Peace?) included, it's clear that Némirovsky intended to write a sort of War and Peace. Even without Némirovsky's astonishing perspective, critics agree that the novels' witty characterizations, mesmerizing prose, cinematic scenes, and insightful observations make these novels short masterpieces. The New York Times expressed concern over characterization, and Newsday noted the absence of discussion about Jews. Still, Suite Française may be considered "the last great fiction of the war"
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The book is gripping, well written, and of monumental historical importance. The translator's notes include a description of Nemirovsky's writing technique, based on one of the great russian writers (Dostoyevski or Tolstoy), which helped me realize how to go about writing.
Irene Nemirovsky, through her writings has inspired me and reinforced my belief in the value of the written word, which can transcend the author's time on earth.
V. A. Koriski
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The year 1976 is vivid in my mind. It was a good year to be Israeli. Rina Mor was crowned Miss Universe. SSK, the Moscow basketball team was beaten by Tal Brody and his fellow Macebees from Tel-Aviv; Israel was on the map -- al ha-mapa. No need to mention that Yoni Netanyahu was a household name in every Jewish home across the world. All the gentiles saw the footage of the Entebe attack and realized it might not be a good idea to mess with the Jews.
On that year one of the songs that vied to be sent to the Eurovision contest was noladeti la- shalom, I was Born for Peace. That song defined me and probably a generation of girls, of erets Israel ha-shelma, the whole land of Israel. It lost, by the way, to Halleluya, which earned this rising power of ours a second victory in a row in this cultural race.
Thirty two years have gone by. Two weeks ago I found myself saying out loud, in disbelief --
remember, as a sweet sixteen I hated Ariel Sharon for his crimes against humanities, I went to kikar malchey Israel quite a few times way before the plaza changed its name to honor our slain leader Rabin, my favorite song to sing in the shower was shir la-shalom, Song for Peace, my eyes still well up whenever I hear Miri Aloni's rendition of it in the ha-lehaka soundtrack --
so I find myself saying out loud, in disbelief --
You know how there are thousands of palestinians fleeing to Egypt through a hole in the wall? The IDF should drop three atomic bombs on them.
There. I said it.
What brought this outburst on, from a Peace Now protege like me, was the news about the bombs that went off in Bagdad. Turns out that the bombs were remotely controlled, strapped to two young retarded girls. Yes, that's right. An innovative tactic of suicide bombs invented by muslim freedom fighters.
Peace Now?!?! It does not make sense.
There is no place to turn to but to the poets... the older the better...
Everything has its season, and there is a time for everything under the heaven:
A time to bear life, and a time to die,
a time to plant & a time to uproot,
a time to kill & a time to heal,
a time to wreck & a time to build,
a time to weep & a time to laugh,
a time to mourn & a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones & a time to gather stone,
a time to embrace & a time to shun embraces,
a time to seek & a time to lose,
a time to keep & a time to discard,
a time to tear & a time to mend,
a time to be silent & a time to speak up,
a time to love & a time to hate,
a time for war & a time for peace.
(Kohelet, 3,1:8)
I continue to pray for shalom al Israel, peace on Israel,
R. A. Shani
February 2008, Los Angeles
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I never thought about the mystical meaning of the number forty until I was well into that year of my life.
On September of 2007 I had no desire to celebrate anything, just going through the most horrific experience of my life (so far, as the modern Homer would add). As I started recuperating I realized it. I just turned 40 - my time has come.
Three years prior, while Faithful's Ballad of Lucy Jordan was constantly playing in my head, on a flight to Paris, I read a duo of articles by a man and a woman turning 40. The man spent the year making a fool of himself together with his two other adolescent best friends, while the lady was embracing herself for the exciting decade ahead. At 40 you know which clothes make you look great and you can afford to buy them. is how she summed it up. And though I was envious of her and my sister-in-law (which would buy clothes without trying them on!), I commented to myself that this sounds a bit shallow. But when I went to Ross, just before Christmas, and bought five out of the eight garments I tried on, plus a hand bag, plus socks for hubby, I was elated! Now I can start celebrating. Among many other things. Send emails to my elected representatives, bike to work, call talk shows, attend shabbat services. Writing.
And then it hit me. God sent the Israelites to roam the desert for forty years, walking in circles, before delivering them to the promised land. He did not bring them back to the garden, but offered a promise, a proposition. A dare? At forty I am daring to dream and go after my dreams.
why does the U disappear when four turns forty?
...to be continued...
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... continues.
Drop me a line, with your LJ user ID, and I'll add you to the Friends list.
thanks for reading!
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In contrast to other unlucky souls who shared her name, Bella lived up to it through and through. Her striking features and skin tone popped up in every generation of the Karamazo clan. Her accidental survival, she could not be thankful for, as she felt that at any moment she could be woken up from this dreadful fantasy to an even more dreadful but less guilt-ridden reality.
Bella had three older sisters who left Galitzia in the 20s to try their luck in the land of opportunities...
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Remember the Mustang?
Oh, that dreadful thing...
Seriously? I loved it when Jaco would take us on a ride on his shiny Mustang! It was the only roller-coaster ride-like thing I dared to do!
They both went silent.
An American car was the status symbol in the mid 70s. It meant you were one of those lucky bastards, who realized construction's where its at, with this sudden burst of prime time biblical land real estate. Settlements were popping up like mushrooms after the rain...
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Irene's Groove
Give it a half second to load, press the play button, and enjoy!
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| 2008-02-09 22:42 |
| Over exposure |
| Public |
| bella, berlin, california, chanuka, dannah, germany, karamazo, lights, religion, shalom, sons |
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He always made them laugh. Shalom claimed that he had a driver's liscence back in Berlin, and they would all roll over with laughter. Unfortunately, in Bella's mind his mere existence felt like a joke. The suitcase with some fine linen, a few silver spoons, a pile of tied sepia colored photographs, the three- and two- year old boys - all these she brought with her from Galizia, along with a large dose of bitterness. The realities of her half century in the fledgling jewish state only served to justify the bitterness and the insanity that eventually set in. She passed it through her breast milk to her sons. So though the three Karamazo boys all loved their father dearly and were indebted to him if for nothing but their own sense of humor, they shared their mother's ridicule of the short man, that while looking at me, as would walk across the refrigerator and say Ti-ree, avarti et ha-mekarer, Look, I passed the fridge!...
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